


The Devil's Own

by Cattraine



Series: Supernatural Texas Roadhouse Blues [2]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattraine/pseuds/Cattraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Larabee was trapped inside his own body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Own

_Chris Larabee was trapped inside his own body. The thing possessing him had finally wrestled total control away and he was held captive inside his own mind and body. He raged, howled a silent protest, shoved his will helplessly against the demon’s that held him. It did no good. The thing laughed and taunted him, and pinned him in a tiny corner of his mind and he could only watch helplessly as it used his tongue and his body to insult and assault his partner, rape Mary, shoot his best friend and almost beat one of his men to death._

 _He would have shouted with relief when his men finally realized he was possessed and chained him up to protect themselves, but that relief didn’t last long when the thing only giggled at Josiah’s exorcism attempt. Still, he was glad when Sister Serafina’s holy water and crucifix worked to help them capture and chain him down. He had never been a praying man, but now he hoped that if they couldn’t get the thing out of him Vin would have mercy and put a bullet in his brain. Now all he could do was watch and listen as the demon wearing his body taunted and insulted his men as they waited for Tanner to return._

**********************************************************

Vin Tanner slouched in a chair at a corner table, half-dozing with his back against the wall. He was exhausted. He had almost fallen asleep face down in his plate of chile verde, rice and burritos before he realized he was ravenous and had revived enough to wolf it down. The pale woman behind the bar was a damned good cook, but she and her hulking, silent companion made him uneasy. There was just something off with the way they moved, and well, the way they could be so still. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly watched. It kept him on edge.

The whole damned place raised his hackles, but he figured that shouldn’t surprise him since the men who owned it had such an unusual occupation. Josiah had said that they were a special kind of Hunter that hunted devils and such. Devils like the one inside of Chris now. He shivered silently, remembering the inky black that had swamped his lover’s eyes, the filth that had spewed with a reptilian hiss out of his mouth…the things it had said in front of God and everybody. He hoped the Winchesters could help. The thing had only laughed at Josiah’s earnest attempt at exorcism.

The brothers were in the back rooms now, getting ready to leave with him and head back down to Laredo, where the boys were waiting with Chris. Right now the tall one was putting his baby down for the night, while the older one packed their gear. Tanner knuckled his eyes hard. He’d known he was tired, but he hadn’t realized just how much until he had glanced at the baby Sam had been holding earlier on one hip and thought he’d glimpsed horns and a tail. He sighed and swept the room one more time with a searching glance. It was pretty quiet, early yet for customers. There was one old-timer at the bar, nose in his beer and two teen boys shooting pool in the back corner. Vin relaxed a bit and leaned his bruised body back against the shadowed wall, letting the muted sound of the juke box and the click of pool balls lull him. He reckoned he could rest a bit until it was time to leave. The brothers had assured him that the roadhouse was a safe place.

**********************************************************

Sam tucked his sleeping son into his crib, pulling the small quilt up to his chin. He straightened, closed his eyes and did one last mental sweep of his wards. Everything was in place. Lenore and Leon would watch over Jack at night and Hannah Lucas, Jack’s doctor, would stay with him during the day. Laredo wasn’t that far, so they should be back within a day or so. He bent and kissed a soft cheek and gently removed the tip of Jack’s small tail from his fist and mouth and tucked it under the covers. It amused Dean no end that the baby used his tail as a binky, but it was a habit Sam worked to break him of. Yesterday he had caught Jack about to chomp down on a napping Cannonball’s twitching tail and narrowly avoided a feline disaster. Jack’s tiny fangs were sharp.

He closed the door behind him and headed down the stairs, grabbing his corduroy jacket off the hook in the back hall. Dean had already loaded their weapons and gear in the truck. The tricked-out truck had been John’s. Bobby had kept it for them after his death, knowing at some point Dean would have to retire his beloved Impala from action whether he wanted to or not, and that he would be more apt to accept John’s big truck as a worthy replacement. The classic car simply drew too much attention now when the emphasis was on utilitarian and energy-saving vehicles and no glamour Sam put on it ever held for long. The car was steeped in decades of Winchester blood and energy and had a personality of its own. Sam strode into the public area of the bar and gave Lenore a nod to let her know they were leaving. Tanner stood at the sight of him and walked over to the register to pay for his meal, only to have Sam wave payment away.

“Ready to go? Are you sure you don’t want to get some rest before we head out?”

Tanner shook his head. “I’ll rest after we get that thing out of Chris.”

Sam nodded, understanding, and they headed outside to where Tanner’s big bike waited. Dean pulled the truck around and Sam climbed in and they headed out, following the biker south.

Dean was in a good mood. He had been getting a bit antsy without a hunt. The baby had occupied most of their time for the past month. He popped a CD in the player and Sam gave a long-suffering sigh as Zeppelin began to wail. Dean arched a brow at him.

“Hey! Zeppelin rules, Sammy!”

Sam scowled and reached over to turn the volume down a few notches. There was something about this hunt that niggled at the back of his mind and he wanted to talk it out with his brother. Maybe it was just separation anxiety, like Dean said. Jack was safe. Sam hadn’t had visions in years. Somehow, thankfully he had found the switch to turn them off.

“Doesn’t it bother you that this guy is a member of the Dark Angels motorcycle gang, Dean? I did a check on them and the Feds have been after them for years for gunrunning and suspicion of murder and other felonies. They’re not nice people.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. How much to tell his brother? More specifically how much to tell Sam about his own brief involvement with the infamous gang? And how close Dean had come to staying with them with Sam away at college and his father off chasing his life’s obsession? It had been very tempting to Dean, alone for the first time in his life and missing Sam desperately, to just cut loose for once in his life, abandon years of compulsory discipline and run wild. He wasn’t keen on letting Sam know that, and he made a mental note to check that his honorary Dark Angels vest was still well hidden when he got back home.

“Sammy, I know Sanchez. He’s a good guy, even if he does have a hell of a temper and a thing for nuns. He helped me out of a bad spot years ago, and I’d kind of like to repay the man. As for the Feds, well, we kind of know all about that kind of problem, don’t we? America’s Most Wanted poster boys, remember?”

Sam frowned, protective instincts rising. When had Dean been in such a bad way that he needed a strange biker’s help? He opened his mouth to ask, but his brother gave a put upon sigh and cut him off, reading his mind, as usual.

“It was a long time ago, Sam. You were…away then.”

Sam shut his mouth and bit back the questions he wanted to ask. The Stanford years remained a sticky point between them, even after all this time. In his own obsessive quest for a normal life he had abandoned the one person who needed him the most. It was only recently that Sam had begun to acknowledge that he and his father had a great deal in common. They had been too much alike to ever really get along while he was at home, and he had been glad to get out from under John’s thumb; but now as a father himself, already worried with his son barely out of sight, he could understand John Winchester’s fears for his sons’ safety. He glanced over at Dean’s suddenly pensive face, hating the melancholy droop to that full mouth. One of these days, he was going to wrap himself around Dean and not let him go until they talked some things out, drained some old wounds and allowed them to finally heal. For now, he reached over and gave his lover’s thigh a reassuring squeeze and was pleased to win a smile at the gesture.

**********************************************************

The thing that wore Chris Larabee’s body, hissed, writhed and tried again to stretch his limbs. Testing, always testing, the chaff and burn and give of the heavy iron chains that held him. It watched with sly eyes the tense men guarding it and raised a mangled wrist to its mouth to lap lazily at the bloody wounds, and gave an amused chuckle as the black man nearest him shuddered and looked away in disgust. It had been glorious finally escaping Hell.

Once, long ago he had been human himself, foolish enough to barter his soul for gold. He no longer really remembered that name or that life, and he had yet to earn a name in Hell’s Hierarchy. Once free above he had been like a glutton at a banquet, leaping from body to body, before being drawn immediately to Larabee’s dark vitality. The man was handsome, strong, arrogant and had a beautiful mate. It coveted what he had, and it had been easy to slide into the man’s body as he slept off a night of drunken debauchery, but surprisingly difficult to gain complete control of the lean body. The human had a strong will. It had taken some days to slowly sink in and learn control as it basked in the sheer glory of being able to feel again. To be able to taste meat and whisky, to lust—to take whatever it desired and savor the pure sensations. Its only regret was that it hadn’t been able to enjoy Larabee’s mate. That one had resisted, somehow recognized what it was and escaped.

It licked its lips remembering the woman it had taken instead. The lovely blonde with the earnest eyes and how she had pleaded with it to release her, and finally how she had clawed Larabee’s back in ecstasy when it had ridden her to climax, while her son sobbed in the locked closet. It was sweet, the way she loathed herself afterwards and it had enjoyed worming its way through her guilty thoughts almost as much as it had enjoyed pushing its host’s cock into her wet cunt. Larabee’s body had enjoyed the rape, and his futile rage at his lack of control and betrayal of his lover had only made it sweeter. It had laughed at her shamed sobs, whispered filth in her ear, stroked her fair hair, and left her curled in her defiled bed. It was a pity he hadn’t had time to kill her, to paint that pale body with crimson, but the others had been hunting it by then, but it had planted his seed deep in her ripe body, and perhaps it would take root causing future discord. It had fled New Mexico, taking what it pleased along the way. It had come as a surprise, when Larabee’s men had ambushed it outside a border whorehouse.

A splash of holy water in his face, a glimpse of Tanner’s cold blue eyes, and a tire iron to the back of the skull, and it had awoken in this warehouse chained and…bound. It glared with hatred at the simple crucifix that held it penned in the corner of the warehouse. It burned his eyes and his skin. He snarled and hissed an ancient curse at the big ex-priest who guarded him so closely. The little Hispanic nun beside Sanchez lifted a small hand, made the sign of the cross and murmured an old Latin prayer that made it cringe back to the length of its chains. The earlier exorcism had failed. The fallen priest did not truly believe, and it had hunkered down in the meat suit and held firm, using Larabee’s innate stubbornness to its advantage. It defied them. Humans were weak. It would keep this strong, masculine body as long as it chose, and when it won its freedom, it would slaughter them all.

Behind Sanchez, the tall man, the Fornicator, limped over to the bay doors to murmur with the Dandy. It had used Larabee’s favorite gun to wound his best friend and laughed at the shock and betrayal in Buck Wilmington’s eyes. The Dandy kept well away from it the fear scent was thick, rolling off him in waves, mingled with his sweat and expensive cologne. It flicked a tongue out to taste the scent, savoring its bitterness. The youngest one, the Dreamer, also kept well away, hovering beyond the doors, fearful, the bruises on his face and throat still livid from the beating he had taken coming to Wilmington’s aid.

It was good that they feared him. Fear was a sharp tool when used well. It narrowed its gaze at the dark Hispanic man who stood guard against the wall, arms crossed, liquid eyes steady on him, a blessed rosary around his neck that made it avert its eyes. This one it was wary of, this man would kill his host, given the chance, for shooting the tall one. So would the black man who consorted with serpents, if he had to. It settled back on its haunches to lick its wounds and wait for an opportunity to present itself for escape.

The rumble of approaching engines outside the isolated warehouse near dawn brought the men’s heads up, naked relief on their faces. Sanchez gave it a wide, toothy grin that made it uneasy, while the nun crossed herself and murmured thanks under her breath. It frowned and shifted, rocking on its heels, its chains clinking. Someone…something of Power was approaching—like a storm on the horizon. It could feel the approaching energy tingling over its host’s human skin and it stirred uneasily in its bonds, frantically searching its memories for the One whom it might have inadvertently offended by straying into this territory. To its knowledge none of the Old Ones held dominion here, and it had seen no minions about. It whined uneasily under its breath, than snarled and hissed at the nun’s small, satisfied smile at it’s brief show of weakness. Its heartbeat sped up; the power was building, rolling like thunder over its skin. It sniffed the air and flicked an anxious tongue out, tasting, trying again to identify the source of the energy that practically made the air currents around it crackle. Inside it, it felt Larabee stir with interest, and clamped down on him ruthlessly it wanted no distractions now.

It hissed angrily as its attacker, Tanner, stepped silently through the doors. It would teach him proper deference, tear the sweet meat from his bones when given the chance, lap his rich blood, rape his tight ass and let Larabee watch. It cocked its head and froze at the sight of the man who followed, limping slightly and carrying a small duffle bag. It leered at the handsome face, then frowned uneasily when the man grinned back at him, unafraid.

This one blazed with pure, radiant energy. It whined softly, alarmed for the first time, as it realized exactly who it was seeing. This was a Demonslayer, a Warrior of the Light. This one had no fear. It had been burned from him long ago in Hell’s own fire. The man tilted his striking face and looked it directly in the eyes and smiled in a way that made its host’s hair stand up on his nape. For the first time since its arrival on earth it feared, as full recognition dawned.

That fear became unadulterated terror with the tall man who stepped last through the door, his broad shoulders blocking the pale grey morning light, dark power rimmed with pure light rippling around his core. It whined like a dog and cringed at the sight of him. The Chosen Son, the Hell Raiser, he who had slain Lilith the Eternal, and carried his Beloved Consort from unending darkness into the light, spurning his right to reign in Hell. Frantically it bit at its nails and searched its long memory for any information that might be traded for mercy, for these were the Winchester brothers and the minions of Hell scattered before them like mice beneath the shadow of a hawk. It decided that discretion was the better part of valor and groveled. Perhaps the Chosen Son or the Unholy Beloved had need of a minion. It could only hope. It winced to itself, shamed, face planted firmly on the floor, because inside it, Larabee was laughing.

It was so screwed

**********************************************************

When Vin stepped through the bay into the warehouse he wasn’t sure what to expect, just glad that the boys had managed to keep Chris safely corralled until he got back with help. His eyes went immediately to the chained figure crouching in the corner, safely held by the securely bolted down chains. The amount of blood smearing Larabee’s bare torso and torn arms alarmed him, because this time it was all Chris’. Hateful ebony black eyes met his, and the thing hissed at him with Larabee’s mouth, baring white teeth. It wanted a chunk of him, bad.

Then its attention shifted to the men who followed him and his jaw nearly dropped at the thing’s reaction. It took one look at the Winchesters, and all the sly arrogance died. It whined in abject terror and groveled before them like a beaten cur. It hurt Vin to see a proud man like Chris plant his face to the dirty floor, to see him cower. It took all of his control not to go to his lover, take him in his arms and comfort him. This wasn’t his Chris, this was something using Larabee’s body. So he stood silently aside and waited for orders. Josiah had been right about the Winchesters, he could see that now. This thing was scared shitless of them.

Sanchez stepped forward, a broad grin on his face and swept Dean off his feet in a crushing hug that left the smaller man flailing and short of breath.

“It’s been too many years, little brother,” the big man rumbled fondly, running a hand over Dean’s spiked hair as he set him carefully back on his feet.

Dean grinned back and slapped the larger man on the back.

“Yeah, well, we both know it’s not the years…”

“It’s the mileage!” they finished together.

Sam stepped forward with a tentative smile and Dean introduced him. He still wasn’t sure about these notorious bikers, but it was obvious that at least one of them was a good friend of Dean’s. The others came forward and were introduced by Sanchez. Sam bent and shook the tiny, elderly nun’s hand and winced at her iron grip. Clearly Sister Serafina was a force to be reckoned with. It was her holy water and blessed crucifix that had enabled them to capture the demon possessing Larabee. And seriously, how many elderly nuns would ride shotgun with a biker gang?

Sam listened to Sanchez’ quick explanation of how they had come to realize their leader was not himself, already studying the possessed man. He nodded absently as Josiah ended his tense narration of Larabee’s cross-country trail of chaos. The biker had left a string of assaults and robberies from Four Corners, New Mexico all the way here to Laredo, like a trail of macabre breadcrumbs. The Dark Angels had been lucky to reach him before the cops did.

Dean was already opening his small duffle and hauling out a handful of anti-possession charms, which he handed around, explaining what they were, as he did. The men all obediently draped the silver charms over their necks, except for Standish, who eyed his critically, green eyes suspicious.

“Why, may I ask, don’t you gentlemen wear one as well?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow and pulled down the collar of his tee shirt to display the tattoo of the sigil over his heart, beside him, Sam absently did the same, already on the job, studying the demon.

“Ah see.” Standish muttered, gingerly looping the knotted leather cord over his head, where it dangled incongruously against his tailored Armani suit. Obviously, these were professionals! He would be sure to stay well out of their way. He had no desire to be possessed, especially by such an uncouth devil. He casually resumed his position close to the exit.

Dean withdrew a box of sidewalk chalk from the duffle, briefly debated color, then chose wussy pink and briskly set about drawing a perfect Devil’s Trap on the concrete floor. He had done so many over the years that he could draw them with his eyes shut. He glanced up at Sam, who was frowning down at the groveling man as though he could see inside him. Dean reckoned that with his freaky demonic powers that he probably could.

“Anything special I need to know?” he asked, mentally reviewing the contents of his war bag.

Sam shook his shaggy head, a small sneer of contempt on his face.

“No. This one is lower echelon. Probably its first time above.”

Dean tsked in mock pity. “Sucks to be him then.”

The minor demon wearing Larabee’s body raised its head, realized what he was doing and wailed in fear, writhing on the floor as it tried to crawl close enough to lick Sam’s boots. It was babbling in tongues now to the taller man, begging, pleading for mercy, lying and promising things it couldn’t possibly provide, desperate to survive, to stay out of Hell. Dean felt a shiver run up his spine; old, long suppressed memories of his own time in Hell surfacing. He shoved them back ruthlessly. He had a job to do. He saw Tanner wince, his tired face drawn, and could sympathize. He knew what it felt like to see a loved one possessed.

Sister Serafina leaned over and studied the drawing, peering through her steel rimmed spectacles. Her sharp eyes were set in a nut-brown face under an immaculate white wimple.

“Ah! Taken from the ‘Lower Key of Solomon’. Excellent!”

She beamed at Dean, and he grinned back at her. He liked the tough little nun, and his smile widened at the sight of Josiah hovering behind her like a huge, leather clad mother hen, big hands flexing nervously the closer she got to the demon. It tickled Dean at how much the big man doted on his convent of elderly nuns. After all, it was a badly told nun joke in a biker dive in New Orleans that had saved Dean’s pretty, young ass all those years ago. If Josiah hadn’t stepped in when he did, a too attractive and cocky for his own good Dean Winchester would have been robbed and raped by a rowdy bunch of Pagans on a bender. That was one story Dean had no intention of ever telling Sam. The less Sam knew about the Stanford years the better, because while his brother had been off in search of himself, Dean had been slowly self-destructing.

Dean finished the Devil’s Trap and motioned the bikers well back out of the way. They obeyed reluctantly, worried about their friend. Dean removed two sawed off shotguns from his bag and handed one to a grim faced Tanner.

“Wait until Sam gets it out, then blast the evil son of a bitch straight back to hell.”

Tanner gave him a grim nod and a feral smile and took the gun, handling it easily, like an old friend.

Sam looked around to make sure that everyone was well back out of the line of fire, noticing that Sanchez had planted himself firmly in front of Sister Serafina (who poked him sharply until he stood aside enough for her to see clearly) and did one last mental sweep of the area, then turned and focused his full attention on the demon. He was aware of Tanner stepping to one side, and Dean to the other, shotguns held at ready. Sam rolled his shoulders to relax the tense muscles, took a deep breath, let it out, and reached. The ends of the chains bolted to the floor abruptly popped loose with the explosive sounds of gunshots and the lengths of chain slithered and coiled like steel snakes around Larabee’s torso from shoulders to knees, effectively immobilizing him. The demon screeched and babbled in mindless fear, as Sam tilted his head and Larabee was lifted gently off the floor and deposited neatly inside the Devil’s Trap.

Sam began to speak, his deep voice rich and true, carrying across the warehouse.

“Exocizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversarii omni legio, in nomini Domini nostri Jesu Christi…”

It had been years since he needed to read the text for a basic exorcism. The thing inside Larabee howled like an animal, drumming its heels on the concrete floor as it writhed and rolled like a snake in a hot frying pan, trying to escape the chains and the trap. It couldn’t escape the ritual though, and the moment Sam reached the end of the exorcism, it came pouring out of Larabee’s open mouth, a cloud of oily black smoke frantically trying to escape the Devil’s Trap through the ceiling.

As one, Dean and Vin lifted their shotguns and each let loose with both barrels of spell and prayer enhanced blessed iron and salt shot, effectively blasting the demon into smithereens and back into Hell. Sam had learned a lot about making effective weapons against demons from Ruby before he had bottled her up for good.

Larabee slumped on the floor, dazed, dehydrated and almost unconscious from blood loss. Sam knelt quickly beside him and began to carefully unwind him from the chains, and after a moment Vin, Josiah, Sister Serafina and Nathan moved quickly to help, the nun murmuring a blessing over the biker. Dean watched as Sam looped a protective charm over the man’s neck, soaking in the gratitude and relieved smiles of the men around him. It was part of his reward for a successful job and he basked in it. It would be a damned long time before that particular demon managed to slither out of the lower depths of Hell again, if ever.

As he watched, Larabee weakly reached out both bloody hands, one to briefly squeeze Sam’s hand in thanks, the other curling tight around Vin’s wrist and not letting go. Sister Serafina bent over him and fussed, a bottle of water in hand and Josiah slid an arm under Larabee’s shoulders and lifted him so he could drink. He gulped thirstily, eyes locked on Tanner’s impassive face. Nathan was already cleaning his raw, torn wrists with alcohol wipes and hauling ointment and bandages out of a well-stocked First Aid kit. Dean collected the shotgun Vin had discarded, reloaded and packed them both away, then stood down from a job well done and walked over to clap his brother on the back and slide a hand up to his nape, massaging the tense muscles there before a killer headache developed. Sam leaned gratefully into his hand.

“Way to go, Kreskin. That was a piece of cake.”

He grinned as Sam winced and rolled his eyes at the traditional lame joke.

Still, they enjoyed the giddy feeling of success while they could. Too often exorcisms ended with the victims dead or horribly maimed. Larabee was lucky unless he had picked up an STD in the whorehouse that the Dark Angels had nabbed him outside of, he only had exhaustion, dehydration, bruises, sore muscles and his raw and torn wrists to worry about physically. His mental health and the law were matters he would have to deal with later. Dean gathered up the duffle, and Sam pulled out his phone and stepped outside to call Hannah and check on Jack. The birds were just starting to sing the morning in. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful summer day.

**********************************************************

They pulled into the parking lot of a shabby adobe cantina painted Pepto-Bismol pink and parked under a pair of enormous willow trees. Sanchez had asked that they accompany them as far as a nearby safehouse and answer a few questions about demons and how to avoid possession. Since the job had gone so easily, and it was on the way home, they agreed to stop for rest and food. Sam had checked with Hannah and Jack was fine, everything quiet, so they could afford to kill a few hours before heading north. In the meantime, Ezra would chauffeur Sister Serafina safely home in the comfortable luxury of his latest stolen Jaguar. The Sisters of Mercy had a major rose rustling campaign planned for the weekend and she didn’t want to be late. She hugged and kissed and blessed both Winchesters before she left. Dean grinned wickedly as the little nun admonished Josiah to ‘be good’ as she left and the big man nodded meekly as he carefully shut her door.

The cantina was owned by an old biker friend of Raphael’s who had semi-retired from his life of crime after wrapping his bike around the fender of a Kenworth. Now Juan Aguilar led the lazy life of a bartender slash weed dealer. He was infamous for his knowledge of gossip from both sides of the border. Want to know where the next shipment of Colombian white was coming across? Ask Juan. Want to find out whose old lady was sleeping with her man’s best friend? Ask Juan. Want to find out when the next ATF raid was scheduled, or the Border Patrol’s schedule? Juan would know, and for a small fee, enlighten anyone who needed that information.

Juan preferred to think of himself as an information broker instead of a well-connected snitch, and it was a well-known fact that the only ones he would never rat on were the Dark Angels. He knew too well exactly what would happen to him if he did, and he had no intention of ending up as coyote chow in the desert. He also had a half dozen battered trailers parked out back that he rented to anyone who needed a place to hole up for a while, and his woman, Mercedes, was the best damned cook in the county.

Jackson and Tanner herded Larabee inside the shelter of the nearest air-conditioned trailer. The tall biker moved sluggishly, boots dragging, his bandaged arms over their shoulders as they half led, half carried him inside. It would be a while before Chris was his usual ornery self. Mercedes Aguilar bustled into the cantina to bark orders in rapid-fire Spanish to her kitchen staff while the rest of the Dark Angels and the Winchesters spread out among the patio tables of the tiny courtyard to take advantage of the shade and the cool breeze off the river.

Sam leaned back in his chair and stretched his long limbs, watching with sleepy eyes as Dean lectured the bikers on the benefits of various protective charms for home or vehicle, sketching one out on a napkin as he did. Sanchez peered over his shoulder and Dunne hurriedly typed notes in his fancy palm. So far no one had asked how Sam was able to open Larabee’s chains and levitate him into the trap, and he was grateful. Better they thought him some modern day wizard ala Harry Potter than learn of his demon blood. Although, he thought that, just maybe these guys were more open to the concept of fighting fire with fire then most.

So he leaned back in his chair a bit more and made a mental note to question Dean more closely about the time he had spent with these men. As he watched Josiah beam paternal pride down at his brother, one big hand again ruffling Dean’s spikes, and Raphael lean close and slap Dean’s shoulder in a familiar manner with a sotto-voiced private quip, he got the distinct impression that Dean had spent a lot more time with these rowdy bikers than he had given Sam to believe. Just what mischief had his big brother been up to while Sam was off at college in those solo years when he hunted alone?

As he watched, the tall biker who had been introduced to him as Buck plopped down in the chair next to Dean and lazily draped a long arm over his shoulders, as he slid a cold, frosty mug of beer in front of his brother and took a gulp of his own. Dean gave the big man a grin and nod in thanks, as he turned to point something out about the sigil he was scribbling to Josiah. He didn’t seem to notice just how close Buck was. Sam scowled. He noticed, and Wilmington’s lips were too damned close to his brother’s skin for his comfort.

A beaming Mercedes leading a small parade of waitresses interrupted his brooding thoughts, all bearing steaming platters of delicious smelling food and trays of cold drinks. His own appetite woke up with a loud stomach rumble, and across the table, Dean was already sniffing the air appreciatively as he unwrapped his silverware from his napkin. He turned to Buck and made an appreciative comment about the fat burritos smothered in chile verde, still seemingly oblivious to the man’s invasion of his personal space.

Sam’s frown grew when Wilmington leaned over and still entirely too close, murmured something in Dean’s ear that brought a rosy blush to his brother’s face. Sam’s eyes narrowed and Wilmington let out a startled yelp and hastily pushed back from the table when his cold beer slid abruptly across the tabletop and dumped itself into his lap. The big man swore, stood, and swiped at his wet crotch with a napkin while his friends jeered at his clumsiness. Sam took a smug sip of his own frosty beverage and met his brother’s laughing eyes over the rim of the glass. Sam smiled lazily at his lover, not even bothering to pretend innocence, eyes on Dean’s pink tongue as it flicked out to lick the foam from his full lips. Dean was his, that’s all there was to it. Satisfied that his claim had been duly noted, he sat back and concentrated on his food. He smiled to himself as he felt a booted foot hook around his ankle under the table.

Plates were distributed and hot platters spread out on the table family style and everyone dug in with enthusiastic murmurs. For several long minutes there was only the clink of silverware against plate and the sound of enthusiastic chewing mingled with appreciative grunts. Jackson emerged from the trailer and spoke briefly with Wilmington, who in turn sent Mercedes to the trailer with a full tray for Tanner and Larabee. Chris had probably not eaten a full meal in days, and both were on the verge of total exhaustion.

Inside the trailer, Chris Larabee laid his lean, aching body out on a lumpy mattress and carefully stretched to his full length, reveling in being in full control again. He hurt all over, but after a careful inventory he decided it was relatively minor, mainly exhaustion and dehydration. He had had worse in bar fights. The worse injuries were where the demon had torn up his wrists trying to squirm out of the chains. Nathan had cleaned them and put in a few stitches for the worst cuts, then bandaged them. He figured that all he needed now was food, water and rest. And for his partner to look him in the eye and tell him that things were okay between them.

Vin was across the small room setting out the plates of food that Mercedes had left onto a small, rickety table, entirely too focused on that small task. Larabee frowned and rubbed at his gritty eyes. He had vague memories of some of the nasty things he had said to Vin and a damned sharp memory of fucking Mary Travis and little else. There were memory fragments that were disjointed and dreamlike, bits that had slid past the demon’s faltering control; his hands tearing at Vin’s shirt, grabbing his arms hard enough to bruise while he crooned filth in his ear, Mary squirming and panting beneath him ashamed of her pleasure, her nails raking his bare back, the roar of his bike as he headed towards Texas, the terrified face of the young clerk at a deserted gas station as he forced the young girl into the back room with a gun barrel under her chin, pressed her against the wall and slid a hand under her skirt. Worse of all he couldn’t remember if he had killed anyone. He figured Vin would eventually tell him when he decided to talk.

If he decided to talk.

**********************************************************

Fifteen miles north, Ezra took note as he passed a dozen or more Iron Horsemen escorting a dark SUV with tinted windows headed south. What were the Horsemen doing this far into Texas? He glanced over to where Sister Serafina sat, safely buckled in her seat, hands folded placidly in her lap, dozing to the soothing sounds of Vivaldi from the stereo. He chewed his lip for a moment, than reached for his cell phone. It wouldn’t hurt to give the others a heads up. Chances were that the rival bikers merely had business across the border, but if not, the Dark Angels were outnumbered, since the rest of the gang was still in Four Corners. He frowned when Josiah’s phone went directly to voicemail, left a brief message and flipped his own shut. He glanced uneasily in the rearview mirror before returning his full attention to the road and gently pressed the gas, speeding towards home.

**********************************************************

Dean pushed back from the table with an appreciative burp, winked at Sam and headed inside the cantina for the toilet, strutting a little as he went, fully aware of Buck’s eyes on his ass and Sam’s jealous scowl. He was pleasantly full and toying with the idea of making Sammy drive home while he took a well-deserved nap. This had been an easy job and it didn’t hurt that the Winchesters had racked up some major points with the Dark Angels. Dean knew these men and they made formidable allies. If he and Sam ever needed friends in low places, and dirty deeds done dirt-cheap these were the boys to see. As he stepped inside the gloom of the small cantina and headed for the bathroom he heard the rumble of cycles pulling into the front parking lot, he paid little attention. After all, it was a biker bar.

The Horsemen pulled into a neat row, hemming in the Dark Angel’s bikes and the truck. A petite, busty woman with chin length red hair and feral eyes stepped out of the SUV, and smacked the hood impatiently, long nails clicking against the metal. She wore a leather jacket the color of old blood and tight black jeans.

“You know which one I want. Bring him to me unhurt. Shoot the rest. Get your asses in gear! Move!”

She slipped back into the SUV and waited, revving the engine impatiently.

They obeyed, removing hidden weapons from their saddlebags and heading into the cantina. Some moved clumsily, as though unfamiliar with their limbs and they all wore soulless black eyes as they shambled for the door.

Inside, propped sleepily behind the massive oak bar, teenage Francisco Aguilar took one look at the approaching demon bikers, dropped his Batman comic book and grabbed the sawed-off kept under the register with one hand, even as he yanked hard at a cord dangling against the wall, sounding the alarm with the old bronze bell hanging in the adobe arch leading out to the courtyard. Francisco wasn’t a particularly educated boy, but he had see enough zombie movies in his time to know what to do when menaced with supernatural beings---shoot first and ask questions later. Thus, when the first burly demon came through the cantina door, Francisco’s first shot immediately blasted him back out again, bowling him ass over teakettle and knocking over the two men behind him.

Unfortunately, they ignored the buckshot and kept coming and began clumsily shooting back, forcing the boy to duck for cover as glass bottles and mirror fragments rained down over him. Heart pounding he crawled frantically for the exit, knowing he was outnumbered. Help came unexpectedly when Dean emerged from the back hall, a Colt .45 in each hand, covering him, every shot hitting a demon target, and there was a sudden stream of Spanish invective from the kitchens and the barrel of a rifle poked thru the pick-up window above the bar as elderly Emelia Aguilar took exception to the gringos shooting at her grandson and shot back. Francisco was mortified. His grandma was saving his ass! If his chollos ever caught wind of this, his rep was shot and he would forever be known in his posse as a pussy.

“Abuelita! No, get down!”

He managed to get off another round at the bikers, and watched appreciatively as Dean’s steady, well-placed shots put a man through the dark plate glass window, glass shattering into sparkling shards in the parking lot.

“Aim at their heads!” Dean yelled, realizing that the demon possessed men were barely affected by body shots and flesh wounds, but that a headshot would take them out by destroying their human host’s motor control. He seemed unphased by the bullets taking chunks out of the plaster walls behind him as he stood his ground and kept shooting.

He swore as his right hand gun abruptly jammed and the remaining Colt clicked on an empty clip. He hurled the useless gun straight between an approaching demon’s eyes, and hurried to slap a new clip into his remaining weapon, only to be tackled to the ground by two bloody, rapidly moving bikers. One took a bullet under the chin and fell back, spraying blood and spewing the demon out in oily smoke, but the other managed a lucky blow with his gun and knocked the struggling Hunter unconscious. He immediately grabbed the fallen man by the lapels of his denim jacket and began dragging his prize for the door, the others covering him as he went.

**********************************************************

The sound of the bell and the following gunshots galvanized the men in the courtyard. Vin exploded out of the trailer, his shotgun already pumped and in hand, Chris close behind him, steadying himself with one hand on his man’s shoulder, the other holding Vin’s Desert Eagle. For a wounded man he was moving astonishingly well, determined not to be trapped in the tin can of a trailer in the midst of a gunfight. He would crash hard from the adrenaline later.

Juan swore and pushed his screaming wife down, flipping a cast iron patio table over on its side as cover. His weapons were all out of reach. He was getting soft. Inside he could hear his mamacita’s furious cursing and the boom of her old Sharps, and thankfully, the sound of his son’s shotgun. Thanks to the Virgin, they both still lived. He crossed himself and watched as the men around him drew their own weapons and charged the cantina door, dodging the screaming, panicked wait staff, and led by the giant gringo, before following and making for the weapons cache he kept beneath a terracotta planter of petunias. He had no idea who had invaded his place of business, but he was determined they wouldn’t walk away unscathed.

“Dean!”

Sam yelled, oblivious of his own safety. Goddammit, only his brother could walk into a gun battle on his way to take a piss! His own Glock in hand, he slipped through the door, keeping low, eyes searching frantically for his lover. His eyes widened at the sight of an ebony-eyed biker struggling to rise to his feet in the middle of the slick, bloody floor, despite the multiple gory gunshot wounds to his torso. Without thought, he raised his gun and put the man down with a shot between the eyes, and realizing the other, now retreating bikers were possessed as well, he raised his voice and began to shout the rite of exorcism.

The wounded bikers hissed and flinched, retreating from the stinging bite of his words as well as the Dark Angels who were quickly maneuvering their way in behind Sam and adding their own well-placed shots to mow the Horsemen down. Raphael and Buck dove in and rolled behind the bar, Raphael’s twin Colts blazing and Buck pausing to slap Francisco jovially on the back, flattening the scrawny teen. Nate and Josiah brought up the rear; assuming positions near the exit, while JD and Juan stayed outside to insure that the other innocents were protected. Vin and Chris were at Sam’s back now, feral grins on their faces as they got a little of their own revenge against demon kind in general. The noise was horrific and the scent of cordite and blood thick in the air. A bullet whipped Vin’s hair and Chris retaliated with a shot that blew the back of the shooter’s skull out.

Francisco raised his head from where Buck had inadvertently flattened him.

“They took him! They hit him on the head and took him!” he yelled at Sam.

Sam snarled and charged for the front, knocking one sloe-eyed biker aside and leaping over downed, twitching bodies while Josiah’s booming voice took up the exorcism rite where he had left off, causing the wounded demons to writhe in agony as they sought to exit the dying human bodies. He ignored the door and jumped out of the broken front window, boots crunching on glass splinters. He was just in time to see his brother’s limp legs disappear into the back of the SUV, and a biker slam the door shut as the vehicle peeled rubber out of the parking lot. The biker turned, gun in hand, but a shot from Vin past Sam’s shoulder blasted him off his feet and laid him out. The parking lot was a muddle of overturned bikes, dead and dying bikers and blocked vehicles. There was no time to free one for pursuit of the kidnapper.

Instead Sam stood tall, reached inside himself into the white hot cauldron of pure, furious rage—how dare they touch his brother, how dare they lay one unclean hand on what was his---and threw out one hand at the SUV as it sped from the parking lot, his big hand whipping, twisting, and yanking at thin air, unleashing some of that rage. The effect was immediate. The entire driveshaft, axles and undercarriage were abruptly yanked from beneath the vehicle bringing it to an abrupt halt and slamming the driver into the steering column. The body of the SUV skidded ahead, screeching metal and throwing sparks on the highway for a good fifty feet before stopping. Sam’s pulse was pounding a steady red beat behind his eyes as he strode in pursuit of the disabled vehicle.

Behind him, Vin paused in the act of pumping another round into his shotgun, and arched an eyebrow, impressed. He whistled softly.

“Damn. Remind me not to piss that man off.” he murmured to Chris, who was busily kicking a fallen, twitching Horseman in the head for the sheer fun of it. Larabee raised his head and gave him his signature shit eating grin,

“Noted!”

He was in a much better mood having gotten some of his own back, his adrenaline pumping. There was nothing quite like a brisk gun battle and bar fight to raise his spirits. Besides, Vin was talking to him again! He glanced around. All of the demonic Horsemen were down now, and Raphael was going from man to man methodically putting bullets in the backs of their heads, his handsome face grim, Buck at his back, gun at ready, while Josiah finished the rite and the remaining demons fled their fallen hosts and scattered. Francisco, Juan, JD, Nate and a tiny, elderly Hispanic woman with a rifle longer then she was tall, peered from the shattered window of the cantina. He turned to watch as Sam stalked like a big cat towards the SUV. He sure as hell didn’t envy the driver.

As they watched, the driver’s door was flung open and a redheaded woman staggered out, blood streaming down her chin. She turned ebony eyes on Sam; lips curled back over bloodstained teeth, and opened her mouth to speak. She wasn’t given the opportunity.

Sam calmly advanced on her, long legs eating up the distance and raised his hand again and clenched his fist.

She gagged as her air passage was abruptly cut off, and clawed frantically at her throat, eyes panicked.

“Hello, Meg. Long time no see. You should have stayed in Hell. It was safer for you there, and you should never have touched what was mine.”

She staggered back, the demon writhing under her skin, trying to escape Sam’s casual, cruel grip, cringing against the side of the car.

Sam lifted his hand and she was raised several feet in the air and pinned like a bug against the SUV, still choking. Calmly he put his Glock back in his holster and stepped up close in her face as he slid a long curved blade from the sheath on the back of his belt. He stared coolly into her eyes, held the knife up so she got a good view of the angelic sigils etched on it that spelled her doom, his own narrowed eyes pitiless. Sam Winchester was no longer the bewildered, naïve boy whom she had taunted and teased years ago. This man was the Hell Raiser and the Demonslayer and she was just another demon who had been stupid enough to think that she could touch his family and survive.

“Goodbye Meg.”

He slid the blade up under her ribs and into her heart and watched as the blue energy took her, reducing her demonic self to black ash, then wiped his blade on her sleeve and re sheathed it, letting the host body slide discarded to the ground. The days when he grieved for the innocent human hosts were long past, a casualty of years of guerilla warfare against the supernatural. If it touched Dean, it died it was as simple as that.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, heart pounding, he hurried to yank open the car door. Dean lay inside, slumped halfway into the foot well, curled in a heap, blood trickling down the side of his face from a lump on his temple. He was going to have a spectacular black eye as well. Carefully, big hands shaking, Sam felt for a pulse and let out a loud sigh of relief when he found it, strong and steady under his fingertips. Relieved beyond words he bent and dropped a soft kiss on Dean’s mouth. Gently he eased his brother from the car, and lifted him in his arms, determined to remove him from the carnage around him. Turning back to the cantina, he was grateful to see Nathan trotting towards him, oversized, well-stocked medical kit in hand.

**********************************************************

Dean regained consciousness with a pained groan; imps were doing flamenco inside his skull. Memory surged back and he struggled to sit up, blinking, with fists flailing.

“Sam!”

“Easy, easy, Dean. I’m right here.”

Familiar big hands squeezed his shoulders and warm lips brushed his. He swayed dizzily and leaned his head against his brother’s, breathing in his familiar scent while he got his bearings.

“Ow. Ow. Ow. Fucking concussion.” He grumbled, familiar with the symptoms and relieved to find himself safe with Sam. He blinked at the black spots dancing in front of his eyes. His left was nearly swollen shut. He brought a shaky hand up to his pounding head.

“Everyone okay? The kid behind the bar okay?”

“Everybody is fine Dean. Except for Meg and her minions.”

There was a deep note of satisfaction in Sam’s voice.

“Meg, huh? I guess she was due to turn up sooner or later. It’s been a while.”

He squinted around, and realized he must be lying on a bed in one of Juan’s rentals. Relaxing, he allowed his brother to ease him back in a horizontal position and slip a fat pillow under his aching head. He accepted the painkillers and water Sam offered gratefully, and let him fuss over him and slap his hands away when he poked gingerly at the lump on his head and his swollen eye.

Sam settled on the bed beside him and brought him up to date on events. The younger Winchester had been amazed at how rapidly cleanup after the carnage occurred. Juan had made one phone call and two vans and a flatbed truck had appeared within minutes, disgorged a melee of stocky, tattooed Hispanic men who had loaded up the vehicles with bodies and bikes with a brisk efficiency that spoke of much practice, and disappeared within the hour. The only cop that had shown up an hour later had spent a few minutes scratching his head over the skid marks and the mystery of the wreaked SUV, asked a few questions (of course there were no witnesses) and slapped a orange hazard tag on the vehicle before having it loaded on a tow truck and removed from the road. When Sam had last seen him, Juan was on the phone again, this time trying to get his windows and mirrors replaced while Francisco, Emelia and Mercedes briskly welded brooms and mops to clean up the mess. Sam had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time the cantina had weathered a biker war, and he wondered idly how much Juan spent yearly on spackle to repair the adobe walls pocked with bullet holes.

When he had left to check on Dean the rest of the Dark Angels had been seated at the bar with a bottle of tequila (apparently carnage made them thirsty) swapping loud stories about bigger and more interesting brawls some involving explosives, one of which had featured a certain young Winchester that Sam had made a mental note to follow up on. The thought of a younger Dean hanging with these rowdy bikers literally raised the hair on his head. Apparently while Sam had been pursuing his idea of normal, Dean had literally run wild for an unknown amount of time before seeking Sam out at Stanford. The sheer possibilities of the mischief his brother could have gotten into made him cringe. No wonder his brother was so familiar with the inside of a prison.

After he made another brief call to check on Jack, he had gone back to the trailer where Nathan was finishing taping up Dean’s injury. Other than a few cuts and bruises it appeared the minor concussion and black eye was all he had suffered in the fight. He wished now that he had taken the time to interrogate Meg as to exactly why she had targeted Dean. He had assumed that it was out of pure hatred on her part and had to do with the fact that Dean was the one who had slain her sire and sibling. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, fighting a headache. He had lost control and let his fear and rage rule his head. He hoped that he wouldn’t end up regretting it. He had warned Lenore to be on guard against any bikers who stopped in, it was all he could do. That and hope that his wards around the Roadhouse were strong enough to hold. Now second thoughts nagged at him. Maybe Meg had known more about Jack, if he had only taken the time to listen. It was certainly the type of information she would have enjoyed teasing him with. He was feeling nervous and uneasy and wanted to head for home as soon as possible.

A hand tugged at his sleeve and he found himself looking down into soft green eyes. His brother smiled up at him fondly.

“Come ‘ere. Lay down with me. Keep me company while I nap. You’re thinking too hard again. One less demon bitch to ever have to worry about again and we’ll head for home in a few hours.” Dean tugged harder, with a wink and teasing smile.

He sighed in agreement and stretched his lanky body along his brother’s, laying his shaggy head on a broad shoulder and letting his eyes close, relaxing into Dean’s loving touch as his brother gently carded his fingers through his hair, soothing his impending headache away, the strong, steady beat of his heart lulling him into sleep. After a few minutes, Dean pressed a kiss into his hair and dozed with him, hand at rest, still cupping the nape of his neck. They dozed through the heat of the afternoon, taking rest while they could.

**********************************************************

In the next trailer over Vin and Chris had just taken turns in the cramped shower to wash off the scent of blood and gunpowder. Chris was glad of the plentiful hot water he felt filthy, inside and out and the lingering sulfur scent left by the demon had to go. He scrubbed at his skin until it was almost raw. He stepped out of the humid bathroom with a threadbare towel wrapped around his narrow waist, feeling human for the first time in days. Vin was seated on a rear window seat, in the back of the trailer, clad only in his faded jeans, blue eyes alert on the cantina courtyard outside, as he absently wrung water from his long hair. He was still wired from the fight and would be for a while. The bright afternoon sun limed his tan skin and picked out strands of pure gold in his honey brown hair and Larabee swallowed hard at the sight. There was a time only a few weeks ago that he would have felt free to take a seat beside his man and run his fingers through that silky mass, tugging the tangles out. Now Vin turned cool blue eyes on him and he couldn’t help taking note of the loaded Desert Eagle on the window ledge close at hand and the old bruises on Tanner’s biceps and wrists.

Chris gnawed his lip and swallowed hard, flashes of an unwanted memory surfacing. He forced himself to meet that steady gaze.

“I didn’t hurt you did I? Um, I don’t really remember a lot…” He raised a hand and scratched at his blond stubble, eyes flickering away uneasily.

Vin tilted his head and regarded him thoughtfully, lush mouth still set in a grim line. After a long, silent moment that had Larabee ready to scream, he finally spoke, his voice soft.

“You didn’t hurt me none. Pissed me off a mite. You got a mouth on you, Larabee.” His blue eyes narrowed at the last, still angry.

Larabee nodded. There wasn’t a hell of a lot he could say to that. Yes, he had been possessed by a genuine devil, but he still felt responsible for his own actions and ashamed of himself and his lack of control. He just hoped that the police didn’t come banging at his door anytime soon and that in nine months he wasn’t daddy to a baby by Mary Travis or any of the others he had violated on his cross country spree. He sat down across from Tanner and raked a shaky hand through his blond hair. Goddammit, he didn’t know what to say to make things better. Sorry just didn’t cut it when it came to demonic possession.

As always, Vin had the uncanny knack of reading his mind.

“Buck took care of Mary Travis before we left to come after you. Paid her a visit and left her a DVD of a lil’ party for two they had a while back. Asked her if she ever heard of Youtube. There won’t be a peep about charges from her. Ezra is running damage control on the others…none of them stores had cameras.”

Chris raised his head. “It ain’t Mary I’m worried about!” he snapped, black temper flaring.

Vin gave him a ghost of a smile, sharp eyes on his flushed face, then his piercing gaze softened as he looked thoughtfully out the window again, to where the rest of the boys had settled at a table in the courtyard with the tequila bottle, he paused, then gave his drying rope of hair one more twist.

“Dean told me a bit about them demons. How they sink into a man’s body and take over. I reckon that must be hell on earth to be trapped inside yourself, not even able to lift a finger.”

It was the most Larabee had heard Vin say at one time in months. It unnerved him a bit, this voluble Vin. He raised his head and looked him dead in the eye.

“I suspect you want to shoot me right about now.” he stated baldly.

Tanner quirked a brow and gave him a genuine grin this time, white teeth flashing and eyes crinkled in amusement. Slowly he turned and faced Chris, shaking his hair back over his bare shoulders, arms draped along the back of the narrow padded seat, and deliberately spread his legs giving Larabee a fine view of his crotch, long toes digging lazily into the worn shag carpet. The smile morphed into something that was pure, wanton evil.

“You might say that.”

Larabee felt the temperature in the air-conditioned trailer rise a couple of notches, and he swallowed hard with a suddenly dry throat. He felt his lips curl back from his teeth in a familiar feral snarl and for a second wondered if the demon was completely gone…then he pounced. Vin grunted at the impact and gave a growl of his own before sinking sharp teeth in Chris’s lower lip, as they rolled off the narrow couch and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Larabee’s towel sailed over his head as Vin yanked it off and flung it away, and he grunted with the impact as his man landed on his chest, pinning him flat, seemingly intent on gnawing his lip off. Chris tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth, then started biting back, as they cursed and clawed and rolled together, thudding against the wall and causing the whole trailer to shake on its blocks.

Next door, Sam Winchester scowled and raised his head from his soundly sleeping brother’s shoulder. He glared blearily in the direction of the guttural noises that had woke him, realized belatedly what he was hearing, gave a snort and laid his head back down, burying his face in Dean’s warm throat. Damned bikers did everything at full throttle, even fucking. He closed his eyes and was asleep again in moments, one big hand curled protectively over his lover’s hip.

Across the courtyard, Buck (who had a keen eye for such things) noticed sound and movement in the rocking trailer and whooped and raised his glass in salute. The others followed his lead, adding loud catcalls and yells of encouragement of their own. Satisfied that things were well on the way to being set right in their off-kilter world, they hollered for a couple more bottles of tequila to celebrate. They would all be shit-faced before dark and enjoy every minute of it. At least until morning.

“Come on, you son of a bitch, get in there!”

The threat would have been a lot more effective if his knees weren’t nearly pinned up by his ears, and he wasn’t so breathless. Larabee hissed in exasperation, them moaned as Vin calmly hooked a knee over his shoulder and bent to nip a tiny, tingling nipple before laving it with a wet tongue, like a big purring cat. The little bastard was taking his time now, after getting Chris all riled up, and he hated when he did that. No way in hell was Chris going to whine and beg…and…

“Oh yeah, goddamn, right there! Vin, dammit…!”

Because of course, the son of a bitch stopped then, to grin wickedly down at him, hair curtaining his flushed face. He took his sweet time pushing Chris’s legs into position as he sat back on his heels and raised one hand and spat into the broad, calloused palm. He grinned as Larabee avidly followed every movement with hot eyes, as he leisurely stroked his hard cock, now free from the jeans he had pushed down past his knees, and bobbing wantonly between his thighs. He spread saliva and pre come over the fat, throbbing head, and then abruptly mounted his lover, thrusting hard into Chris’ hot, dry hole. He wanted Chris to feel this and remember being used. He ignored Larabee’s grunt of pain and took what he had been wanting for days, hard and rough, thrusting as deep as he could into the lean man’s tight ass. Chris was his, and by God, after this, he would fucking know it every time he tried to sit down for the next two weeks.

Larabee locked his legs around his man’s waist and held on for the ride, matching the feral grin above him with one of his own. He leaned up and hooked a hand around Vin’s nape, tangling his fingers in a rope of drying hair, yanked it hard and bit at the square jaw.

“Bring it on stud, I want whatever you can give.” he growled throatily in one ear, before savagely sinking his teeth in the tender lobe.

Vin snarled, twisted and bit back, sinking sharp white teeth deep into Larabee’s left pectoral muscle, bringing up a deep bruise and drawing blood.

Larabee was going to be sore for days, and he didn’t give a goddamn. He just wanted to be fucked dry, wanted to feel and be in control of his own body, wanted his lover above him and in him. So he relished the brutal fuck, dug his heels in that hard, pumping ass and clawed his blunt nails down that lean, golden back and bit at his man’s mouth and jaw leaving his own marks of possession on his one true thing in a world of uncertainty. They would both be covered with bruises and bites for everyone to see, and that was the way Larabee wanted it. Wanted everyone to look at Vin’s heavy sated eyes and split-lipped, kiss bruised mouth, the bite marks on his neck and jaw visible for all to see, and fucking know he belonged to Chris Larabee. If he had his way and the energy, they would fuck all night and yowl like wildcats while doing it.

Across the way, Dean Winchester cracked open his good eye and glared at the cracked, stained ceiling, pinned to the narrow mattress by his gigantor of a snoring, drooling brother, as familiar sounds filtered into his subconscious, waking him from his heavy sleep. Yep, he thought so. Bikers fucking were the noisiest creatures on earth. It was one of the main reasons he had not stayed with the Dark Angels all those years ago. Between hunting at odd hours and hanging with the raucous bikers, he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. There was a loud thud against the wall of the adjoining trailer followed by a howl of either pain or pleasure, then abrupt, sweet silence. Dean snorted. Those guys had no stamina; why he and Sammy could go all night with the slightest motivation…he nuzzled into the soft, brown hair under his chin and ran a speculative hand down a broad back, yawned, and slid abruptly back into sleep, with a soft snore. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was in need of some sleep.

**********************************************************

It was well after dawn when the Winchester brothers emerged from Juan’s trailer. They were both stiff and sleepy and moving slowly. Dean winced at the bright morning sunlight, his bruised eye tearing. The trailer housing Tanner and Larabee was silent as a tomb. They had apparently fucked themselves into a coma. The brothers exchanged amused smirks.

Across the courtyard, Josiah was sprawled asleep flat out on his back on the picnic table under one of the big oaks, snoring loudly enough to shake the leaves five feet above his head. On the branch poised directly above his open mouth, a large crow perched, head cocked, regarding the man below with unholy fascination. Buck was slumped unconscious at a nearby table, head buried in his arms. JD was curled cozily beneath it, clutching an empty bottle, drooling on Buck’s boots. The others were nowhere to be seen, Sam assumed they had been sober enough to retire to one of the other available trailers before passing out.

A sleepily smiling Mercedes met them at the cantina door, beckoning them to a table already laden with a pot of steaming coffee, and plates of omelets and their rumbling stomachs reminded them of the energy spent the previous day and just how long ago dinner had been. They dug in happily; Dean stuffing his face with a tortilla filled with fluffy egg and melted cheese, while Sam ate more decorously, neatly slicing his omelet into small bites. They ate in sleepy, companionable silence, and had almost finished when Sam’s cell phone chimed. He answered quickly, recognizing the number from the Roadhouse. He was rising moments later, dropping his fork, face grim at Dean’s questioning glance. His brother was already standing, alarmed by the look on Sam’s face.

Sam’s voice was clipped, the words almost bitten off. “We have to go. That was Lenore. There’s a woman there who claims she’s Jack’s mother."

  
_TBC_   



End file.
